


With Great Affections

by orphan_account



Category: Captain Underpants: The First Epic Movie (2017)
Genre: For a Friend, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 09:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13587207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A two-part adventure about Captain and Krupp trying to bridge the divide.





	1. Captain

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was fun.  
> I've never written in two different styles for a singular work before. I liked the challenge of having to figure out a voice for Ben and Captain. I've written pieces in the first person, but never multiple first persons. I had fun creating their independent voices while. It was a ride. 
> 
> Micaxiii is the true champion here, as they gave me the prompt. It largely stems from their comic which can be read here http://micaxiii.tumblr.com/post/163454645902/cu-i-love-you-benny-krupp-heh-what
> 
> Cheers, and I hope you enjoy!

       As foretold in all the comic books, the cartoons and the movies, the stars in all their constellations, the hero falls in love with the damsel in distress. 

       They swoop in just in time to snatch them from the jaws of danger and whisk them off to a place of safety, and somewhere in the process, something happens- something always happens. You can practically feel the second-hand embarrassment and hesitation lifting off the pages. There’s a heat to it, warm like the sun, and it fills you with such hope that-  

_- For the last goddamn time, quit using permanent marker on the dry erase board-_

       But Ben never did need saving. 

       He’s too steadfast and determined to ever want a hero, though I have offered, and though he is himself a hero in his own right (though he is a hero to me, I can’t convince him of that because-) 

       I kept picking him up when he was down because I wanted, to not because I needed to, but now I need to, and I didn’t think it would be this hard to stop- though he tells me to stop (though he tells me he doesn’t want the help and-) 

       But he needs help, and I need to help him. That’s what you do when you care about someone.

       You help.

       You’re there.

       (I wish I was there I want to be there I-)

       He might not wear the cape, but he wears the equivalent in the weight upon his shoulders, checked by the bags under his eyes. There is strength in the physical sense and then there is strength in character. He tries to measure them on the same scale but you can’t- and you shouldn’t. Problems do not have a tangible weight to them, else I would have lifted them from his shoulders. I would carry them for him if I could- I would share that weight. But him- I have watched him crawl his way out of every deep hole a person can fall into and yet- and yet- his bitterness screams so loudly for a better challenge, like he hasn’t done enough damage already. I don’t understand if it’s just his occupation or if it’s some desire to crawl so far out of his own skin that he somehow leaves himself behind. Sometimes, that’s what it feels like, from where I sit at the back of his mind, but I hope he never leaves himself behind. I hope he’s always himself. (I hope that stays.) 

       He’s worth something.

_-I picked up the double stuffed Oreos like you asked, but for once in your life, please don’t eat the whole thing in one go. If I wake up sick again, it’ll be your fault.-_

       I wish I could be there. 

       I wish I could just hold him just hold him just-  

       What is the use of arms if you cannot hold someone to you, if you can’t- 

       It might be impossible to convince him of that because he’s so wrapped up in his own despondency and disappointment, but he’s worth something. I have seen him earn that worth only to turn around and place the laurels upon someone else's brow. They should be his. I keep telling him this and he won’t listen- he never listens (they should be his and I know- I know- I watch him- I am there-) 

       I see- can practically hear the cogs in his brain turning- I know his thoughts almost as well as he does. I know him better than he does. I know the value of that man’s actions, beyond a weight in gold. You cannot put a value on the kind of things he does, though he devalues himself so quickly in the same stroke. Any good villain will tell you that every body has price tag, though I swear his says he’s priceless, or at least, he fluctuates so quickly that I can’t keep up (Why does he do the things he does? I know but I don’t know- I can’t figure it out-). 

       He’s such a good villain

       He’s such a good villain but-

_-I saw what you did this morning. Thanks (And thanks for not leading it to the school like you did last time. That was an absolute mess.)-_

       (He’ such a good villain but he’s not but he’s not but he’s not he’s not a villain he’s not I can’t let him I-) 

       There’s a brightness in him, I know it- I know it because without it I would not be here- I am him. I am all the good in him, and if I love myself, how can I not love him? I have seen the inside of that man’s head because I am the inside of that man’s head, and it is beautiful- it is the most beautiful thing I have ever known, and I have lived it too long to doubt him of being worth anything less than love.

       Because I love him. 

       I love him, and he is worth something to me. 

       (And oh how he loves to ruin himself.) 

       He’s such a good villain, the kind every child fears and every adult wishes to never become, and I know that eats at him. I know it eats- it eats- it eats-

       The sadness in him is a pit filled with crocodiles, snarling and gnashing their teeth, and he dangles there by the slowly fraying rope- 

       What do you do when the villain isn’t really a villain but acts like one, is so very good at acting like one, and just wants to-  

_-Where did you even find goldfish band aids?-_

       I wish I were there to tell him to- 

       He’s not a monster, or a criminal. I know he thinks he is because he dwells on things, Benny does, and sometimes, those things are monsters, and sometimes, he doesn’t put the books away before I see them, and I can imagine what was in his head- in Ben’s head. A behemoth with an open maw full of rows upon rows of teeth, screaming.  

       It never talks, it only screams, and I know that that’s what Ben thinks he is.

       (And maybe he’s a little right, just a little, but things can be fixed, right? I could-) 

       I don’t know why Ben dwells on such things, dreams of such things, fixates and needles and fixates and needles at-

       I asked my sidekicks once and they could not give me an answer. The obsessions of this man, of which he refuses to speak- I just want answers. The wants and frustrations- I cannot understand why he is always so tight lipped, as if he is a bear of such soft stuffings stitched too tight, the lopsided turn of his mouth turning down, the fuzz in his eyes looking like anger, a little too like that monster in his head- 

       (He’d hate it if I told him, but I do so wish to tell him. I wish-)

_-I just sat through a very important board meeting with a flower drawn in sharpie on my fucking forehead. Why? Edith tells me that was your doing.-_  

       But she can tell him. 

       She, with her blue eyes and wide smile.

       I do like her.

       And don’t.

       It’s complicated.

       ...I suppose Ben is wearing off on me. I suppose his fixations and his tight-lipped-ness is rubbing into my own skin, or further down into his skin, or something- something- for me to lie is terribly uncharacteristic and I- it’s not complicated, it’s not. I like her, I do, and he likes her- very much- I know this- I know his head- I’m in his head- 

       But sometimes the way she says things- that’s wrong- that’s not what should be said- I know what he needs- I know what he needs to hear and I think I know how to get him to believe me, and I keep trying to tell her. I keep trying to tell her, and she listens, she does, but the delivery is never right and though I want them to succeed, though I want them to be happy, I just wish I could be there and- I wish- wish I could- I just wish

       What I wouldn’t give for arms that could-  

_-I’m going out with Edith tonight. Please, no playing the hero.-_

       But I want to

       I want to be the hero. I want to be his hero. I want-

       I don’t know what I want, and yet I do- it’s complicated, but it’s not, it’s really not, and-

       If I could tell him, things would be so much easier. If I could just- pen to paper was never something I was very good at. Ben learned, I did not. Ben knows how words are supposed to work and I- I just say what’s on the top of my head because I don’t know how to bend the words and make them fit into the line of thought I want, so they just up and out, all over, everywhere. I don’t think he’d understand if I tried- 

       But I need to try. 

       I need to try. 

       ...Maybe that’s how this kind of thing is supposed to work, anyway. 

       But I can’t do this by myself. I need help. I need my sidekicks. 


	2. Benjamin

       People say that it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

       I want to punch the next person who does so in the mouth.

       I am tired of advice. I am fed up with kind words. I have gotten so sick off of thoughtless condolences from people who think they understand what it is I’ve gotten myself into, and as much as I’d like to tell them just how wrong they are, I find my tongue tied and unable to put into words you, the concept of you, swirling about my head, just behind my teeth and present in all the words I never say anymore.

_“Hello again, friend! Best friend! Great- No, I will get to that!”_

       You are so cheerful. It’s hard to bear. The notes between us, like two ships drifting past each other, roll like gentle waves too and fro across my refrigerator door. I have spent so long staring at the surface of something I know is much deeper that I have convinced myself there is nothing underneath. I have convinced myself of the lie so that I might sleep.

       Seeing you, here, now though, through my television screen, your face burned into the magnetic strip in the tape now playing in my VCR, it is so hard to deny it.

       My stomach turns, and I want to pull myself inside out just to scrub you from me. I want you out of my skin. I want you out of my head.

       And yet, it is exhausting, this living without you.

       Because of course.

       Of fucking course.

       I had grown accustomed to the idea of living and dying alone. I had grown comfortable in my solitude. It wasn’t loneliness anymore, it was just quiet.

       Just peace and quiet. I could handle that. 

       And I did- for so long, I did. Things were fine and life moved on, slowly but surely. The absence of company was nothing compared to the rest of what I occupied my time with, and if I burned the candle at both ends, went through all the midnight oil burying myself in menial work, well then, who would stop me? What did it matter?

       Because it didn’t matter.

       But then you started talking.

       (You haven’t stopped since.)

_“My fair citizen, it has been a pleasure to protect this town with you! In fact, it would have  been outright impossible without! Do you know how important that makes you?”_

       You are incessant, indecent, like some flea-bitten street cat. You leave fur on everything, knock things from high shelves- things I’d rather just let alone. You pester and you poke, asking too many questions, seeking attention, and now it feels like you won’t stop howling right outside my window.

       You are in my thoughts, a constant. Though I cannot hear you, I imagine your answers. Though I cannot see you, I imagine your reactions- to everything. I both wish I could emulate your unbridled joy and that I had never seen it in the first place.

       I know I can’t go back to the silence I had, but I’d like for you to just at least try to leave me be. It would be so much easier.

       I wish you would just hate me.

       I just want you to hate me. It would be so much easier if you did. God forbid we ever figure out a way to meet. If you were to touch me, I’d break your fucking hands.

       (There are days I want to rip my own skin off, thinking I can find you somewhere-)

       I feel like a freak, thinking about this.

       I feel-

       (so many things)

       Like a real fucking freak, like this is all some kind of horrific mistake.

_“Forgive me if- if I stumble over myself a bit. There’s a lot going on up here, but you knew that. If your thoughts have been like mine these past few months, then I think you  know where this is going.”_

       I hope I don’t know. I hope I have no idea. I hope this isn’t like the fifty thousand nightmares I keep having.

       (I call them nightmares because I’m afraid of the implications that would arise were I to call them anything else.)

       I know that I am in love with you.

       I know that I am afraid that I am in love with you, deeply and wholly. Truth be told, I’m afraid of a lot of things, but this most of all. I am so use to being in love with the ideas in my head, but you- you’re not just some idea in my head. You are not some half-baked, fantastical thing.

       Well, no, you are, but-

       You’re real.

       You’re the realest bit of wonder I’ve ever seen. You are so close and yet so out of reach. I see you every time I turn on the news, hear your voice when I turn on the radio. You’re everywhere and nowhere. You’re all around me and yet I can’t fucking find you, can’t actually hold you. Sometimes, I swear it’s you looking back at me in the mirror in the morning, and I can’t take it. How are you the realest thing to me and yet I’ve never actually seen you in person? How is it you can have this much sway over me and who I am when I’ve never truly spoken to you?

       I hate this.

       I hate you.

       I absolutely hate that I love you.

       And I hate the weakness of myself for being able to do nothing about it.

_“I wish this were easier. I wish I could be there. I wish so many things, but these, dear friend, above all others.”_

       Bub, me too.

       Though for me, above everything else, I just wish this wasn’t happening.

       I’ve tried to get over it, you know. I’ve been seeing someone.

       I know you know.

       In fact, I know you know her. You’ve been talking to her, Edith. I can tell. She’ll say things sometimes, and I know it wasn’t her that came up with them, it was you. When I ask though, she gives some kind of answer-not-answer and goes back to aimlessly looking out of the nearest window, like the conversation didn’t happen.

       It’s a good tactic. Were it not for the fact that I’m okay with being obnoxious, I think I’d let it go, but I don’t.

       And she does that tapping thing, when she gets anxious. You know the one. She’ll start tapping her leg, or the table, or her fork against the plate, and it’ll give her away.

       I’ve heckled her enough for her to crack a little, and she’s told me enough for me to figure out you’ve been telling her all the things you think I need to know. You’ve used your time- the time we bartered on- to go and talk to her.

       About me.

       Because you can’t actually come and talk to me.

       I can’t believe you’d use her hands to coddle me though-

       (I’m flattered and- and pissed- and so many things, just thinking about it-)

       She tried to hold my hand, once. It felt all wrong. Fingers too thin, palms not broad enough.

       That, and her hands are always cold.

       It’s soothing, but it’s not right, and while I have grown used to living a lie, I don’t think I can do it anymore.

_“I love you, Benny.”_

       You don’t.

       You really don’t.

       You can’t.

       (Please don’t do this.)

_“Were it not for you, I would be so much less.”_

       (Jesus fuck I can’t believe you’re doing this.)

_“You and your determination, your ferocity, and your desire to do what you feel is right, come what may.”_

       (But I’m lying. I’m not half so assured as you make it seem. Half the time I’m internally screaming at just about everything and the rest of the time-)

_“These things- they are the things I admire in you- that make you into a person I really do care about. So...So you better believe me, alright?”_

       (It’s hard to breathe.)

_“Chin up, citizen, chin up, and know that you are loved beyond measure, even if I’m not there in person to tell you myself… Don’t ever doubt me.”_

       And I don’t.

       For the first time in what feels like forever… I don’t doubt him.

       The weight I didn’t realize I was carrying seemed to lift, though my heart can’t seem to catch a rhythm. It beats out of time, like a weird sort of hiccuping laugh, and what’s funny is...what’s funny is it feels familiar.

_“Don’t you ever doubt me when I say I love you.”_

       And I can’t help but believe him.


End file.
